The Testimonium

by Lewis Ben Smith

  “My dear children,” Giuseppe began. “The Pontius Pilate scroll is translated at last, and tomorrow we will share its contents with the world. I will not share the particulars with you yet, but I will say this much—the Church got it right! Maybe not in all the terrible things done in the name of Jesus since He walked the earth, but in the narrative the Gospels tell us, the Church preserved the correct story. You know that your mother and I were both raised in the Catholic Church, and you also know that my faith took a long sabbatical since her untimely death. No more! Tonight I went to church and celebrated Mass with a heart full of love for God, and I have a Bible on my end table as I write this. I know that our church does not place as much emphasis on the Scriptures as Protestants like Joshua do, but I am aflame with curiosity to reread the accounts of the Passion in light of what I now know. I owe young Joshua a great deal—his rocklike faith that our discovery would confirm the Gospel accounts has inspired me. My heart overflows with love of God, and his Christ, and you, my children. The next time we see each other, perhaps we can all attend church together. It would certainly make your old father’s heart proud. I am blessed in my family, in my friends, and I have been blessed to be a part of this greatest discovery in the history of Biblical archeology! I shall write you again, after the press conference tomorrow, and share with you in full what I can only hint at now. Your loving father, Giuseppe Rossini.”

  Josh put the text down, his cheeks wet with tears. He deeply missed the jolly Italian archeologist, and reading Rossini’s account of their time together had made him feel as if the old man were in the chair across from him again. But at the same time, he rejoiced that Giuseppe had rediscovered his faith before leaving this earth, and he thanked God that he had been allowed to have some small part in that process. He folded the papers and rejoined the others.

  “So now you understand why I asked you to speak tomorrow?” Guillermo said.

  “Indeed,” said Josh. “I am still not sure what you would like me to say, though.”

  “We thought perhaps that you would simply like to talk about the work you and our father did together,” said Andrea. “And, we would like you to read this.”

  She handed him a Bible—he recognized it as the basic Gideon Bible that was placed in every hotel room in the world—or at least, in countries where Bibles were allowed. “You can see where he underlined a passage just before he put it down for the night,” she said.

  The Bible was open to Il Vangelo de Giovanni, and Josh read the underlined passage: Io sono la risurrezione e la vita, chi crede in me, anche se muoia, vivrà. Credi tu questo? Josh mentally translated: “I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believes in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. Do you believe this?” In the margin next to it, Giuseppe had written and underlined two words: “Che Faccio!”—“I do!”

  Josh looked up at the two Italians and smiled. “Thank you for the honor you have done me in allowing me to speak,” he said. “I enjoyed your father’s company a great deal, and I am glad if I was, in some small way, able to help him reconnect with his faith. But please don’t assume it was anything about me that helped him find God again. I think that God placed us together for a reason, and He is the one you should thank.”

  The siblings looked at one another. “Both of us are believers,” said Andrea. “We understand that God made sure our father was reconciled with Him before the end of his life. But we also believe that God used you to accomplish that, and we will always be grateful.” She rose and embraced Joshua. “Now we just need you to bring Isabella into the fold, and then take her to the altar!”

  Joshua blushed a little bit—somehow he seemed to do that whenever the topic of Isabella and marriage came up—but he looked her in the eye and said in a loud whisper: “Don’t give away my battle plan!”

  Isabella looked at him across the table and sighed. “I guess I can’t get you where I want you without your God tagging along, can I?” she asked.

  Josh smiled at her. She was so beautiful, he thought. “Actually, dear, He won’t be ‘tagging along,’ He will be in the driver’s seat,” he said.

  MacDonald shook his head. “You two!” he said. “Some days you make me regret my priestly vows, other days you make me profoundly thankful for them!”

  They left the boardroom and found Dr. Castolfo waiting for them. He took them to one of the museum’s side entrances and ushered them into a waiting car with tinted windows. After they were comfortably seated, he turned to them and asked how things had gone.

  “As well as they could, under the circumstances,” she said. “I will deliver a formal tribute to Giuseppe as a colleague and friend, and then Josh will talk about how our time together had such a big impact on Giuseppe’s life and faith. Father MacDonald will be delivering the eulogy and celebrating the Funeral Mass.”

  “I am sure it will be a very fine and appropriate service,” said Castolfo. “The entire Board will be present, of course. It is sad to mark the passing of such a fine man.”

  “I wanted to ask you something, while we have a moment,” said Josh.

  “By all means, Doctor. What can I do for you?” replied the board president.

  “I think I would like to give an exclusive interview to one of the reporters that has been covering this story,” Josh said. “And I think Isabella would like to join me.”

  “I have come to a great respect for your professionalism, Joshua,” said Castolfo. “You may do so with my blessing, and that of the board. Who do you plan to favor with the exclusive?”

  “Andrew Eastwood of the Chicago Tribune,” said Joshua. “He is far and away the most intelligent of all the reporters I have talked to. He has a knack for asking the right questions, and has an impressive background in Roman history.”

  “An excellent choice,” said Castolfo. “Don’t you agree, Isabella?”

  “Absolutely!” she said. “I was thinking that I would enjoy giving him an interview at some point.”

  “Excellent!” Castolfo responded. “I will get his contact information and text it to you later today, so you can reach him directly.”

  “Thanks,” said Josh. “I was wondering how I could get ahold of him without simply calling him out from a pack of reporters.”

  After skirting around the ever-growing mob of protesters in front of the museum, their car had pulled up at the hotel, and Josh and Isabella got out together. She had agreed to go to Mass with Josh and his parents. They were waiting for them, together with Dr. Martens and Alicia. Father MacDonald had remained at the museum with the Rossini siblings. They called a cab and piled in, running the gauntlet of reporters yet again. Josh sighed as they headed to a nearby cathedral. He hoped, at some point, to get his private life back again.

  The service was beautiful, although Josh’s mom, like many Baptists, was a bit confused about exactly when she was supposed to stand and kneel. The priest’s homily was in a rapid-fire Italian that Josh had a hard time following, but he did catch several references to the Resurrection, and at least one direct quote from the Testimonium. The Church was wasting no time in trumpeting Pilate’s confirmation of the Passion narrative, and that made Josh very proud. Maybe this would provide a spark for the revival of Christianity in Europe, which had been needed for so long.

  After Mass, Josh had the cabbie drop Isabella off at her apartment to freshen up, then escorted his parents back to their hotel room. Although he had not put in a heavy day, he was nonetheless exhausted—the injuries from the blast, although now healing, still ached and drained some of his native vitality from him. After seeing his folks to their room, he went up to his suite and collapsed on the bed. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and saw that he had received a text from Dr. Castolfo. Opening it, he saw the name “Eastwood” and a phone number. Better now than later, he thought, and dialed it.

  “Andrew Eastwood, award-winning journalist!” a cheerful voice chirped from the other end of the line.

  “Well, it can’t be too hard to excel
in your field, considering how many imbeciles there are adorning it!” Josh replied.

  “You, sir, have touched the perimeter of wisdom!” Eastwood shot back. “Is this, by chance, Dr. Parker speaking?”

  “Indeed it is,” Josh said. “Your remarkable acuity shows itself once more!”

  “Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” said the reporter. “And do you mind if I record it for posterity?”

  Josh laughed. “No need,” he said. “I want to give you a chance to record me at length. Isabella and I have decided that you will be the recipient of our first exclusive press interview.”

  “Hot dog!” exclaimed the young reporter. “That is a much sought after honor! Why me?”

  “Well, the short answer is that you are the only one out there who asks the questions that I would ask, if I were a reporter,” said Josh. “We both also really enjoyed your editorial in this morning’s paper. Tomorrow is kind of a tough day, but are you free later this evening? Say around eight thirty?”

  “I was going to have dinner with the Pope,” said Eastwood. “But I can blow him off! Where shall we meet?”

  “Come to the hotel this evening, and I will tell the doorman to let you in,” said Josh. “Isabella and I will take you up to the sushi bar on the penthouse level, and we can talk at some length in relative privacy.”

  “Cool beans!” said Eastwood. “See you then!”

  Josh hung up with an amused smile. The reporter looked and sounded like an excited high school student, but according to his biography at the paper’s website, he was actually thirty-five—older than Josh or Isabella. The main thing Josh liked about him was that Eastwood brought a high level of accuracy and intelligence to every story he touched, and that he had not only recognized the remarkable impact of the Testimonium, but had responded to it with an open profession of faith in the pages of one of the world’s most read newspapers. The young reporter had chutzpah, Josh thought, and such a rare quality deserved a reward.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and he looked at the huge stack of mail that had been dumped just inside his door, and then at his bed. Fatigue won out, and he lay down for a nap, leaving instructions to be woken at six. He then called Isabella and told her the time and place, then closed his eyes and surrendered to oblivion.

  * * *

  Ibrahim Abbasside watched the three crowds of clashing demonstrators outside the museum with amusement. He had blended in with them perfectly, hoisting a sign in English that read JESUS: A PROPHET, NOT A GOD! in bold red letters. He knew that the Western intelligence agencies had never managed to get a good picture of him, and so he reveled in being able to hide in plain sight among the crowds outside the museum. He had even caught a brief glimpse of the two infidel scientists and the priest as they scurried into the building that afternoon. His hands had twitched at the sight, longing for the familiar grip of an AK-47. How he would have loved to set their bodies dancing as the bullets riddled them! He had killed four nuns in Somalia in exactly that manner, sending their infidel souls to hell for daring to offer medical treatment to sick children in the name of their false god, Christ—never to be confused with the Prophet Isa, whom he revered.

  But Italy had pretty strict gun control laws, and the Beretta in his pocket would have to do when the time came. But when to catch them unawares? He knew that killing Parker and Sforza would not be enough. He had to destroy the ancient scroll, and remove forever the possiblity that science might confirm it as genuine. Already the infidel priests and pastors were trumpeting from their pulpits that history had proven their faith to be true, and he must put a stop to it! If he could reduce the scroll to ash, it would limit the damage and forever leave the question of the Testimonium’s authenticity hanging.

  When to do it? He figured that the infidel archeologists would wait until after the funerals of the victims from Ali bin-Hassan’s failed attack to move the scroll to Rome for testing. He had already, through a series of covert messages, put two sleeper cells on alert for immediate activation. When the scroll moved, they would strke. But when would that be? And what route would they take? He needed the answers to these questions, and soon.

  <<>>

  GARCIA: Colonel, I have some fresh news for you.

  BERTRAND: What is it, Dingo?

  GARCIA: Looks like the Ethiopian is in Italy now.

  BERTRAND: Do you have his location fixed?

  GARCIA: No, sir, but if I were a betting man, I would guess that he is in or near Naples. We picked up some intercepted conversations, and two sleeper cells have been activated—one near Rome, the other closer to Naples. I am guessing that they are planning to try and destroy that scroll again.

  BERTRAND: (sighs audibly) I suppose that will mean bringing the Italians in on it, won’t it? Crap, I hate that. Their police leak like an Arkansas mobile home roof!”

  GARCIA: I’d recommend getting ahold of Antonio Lucoccini, Colonel. He is probably the straightest arrow in that quiver, and he’s been hankering to nail the Ethiopian ever since those four Italian nuns got perforated in Somalia.

  BERTRAND: No one holds a grudge like a Sicilian, eh? Good call. I’ll begin collating the data. Forward me all the specifics you can, I’ll launder them for security, and then bring him into the loop. With any luck we will nip this thing before it goes down. Good work, Dingo. Keep me informed!

  GARCIA: Aye, sir. I’ll be in touch soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Alexander Vizzini was a Sicilian by birth and a career criminal by choice. His life of crime had made him rich beyond the dreams of avarice, enabling him to wear the most expensive suits and squire young models around town whenever he felt like it. And yet, the worst of his criminal activities would only have netted him a dozen or so years in prison if prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Vizzini had never physically harmed another person, and in fact, he made a point of never carrying a weapon, although his bodyguards were well armed. Of course, his potential jail sentences were theoretical: Vizzini had never been arrested or even named as an accessory to a crime. He was a dealer in information, with a specialization in electronic intelligence.

  Vizzini had taken to the information age like a fish to water—he had a natural gift for electronics, and had learned the ways of the Internet back in the good old days of dial-up modems and 27KB connections. The faster information traveled, the quicker he followed, and with the world becoming increasingly interconnected, he haunted the phone lines and email servers, dipping into communications effortlessly and leaving not a trace behind. As he became aware just how easy it was to tap into government computer and phone networks, he had begun selling the information he gathered to a select group of customers. The Sicilian mobsters were among his best-paying clientele; he enabled them to stay a step ahead of the police by tapping into radio networks, emails, document files, and telephone conversations. He also dealt out information to a variety of foreign governments—not the Western powers, with their silly ideas of the rule of law and limited government, of course—but he had done work for a number of rogue states, all for a high fee. The only thing he insisted on was never being told how the information would be used. As a rule, he avoided watching news broadcasts and reading the papers for that very reason. He was mildly repulsed by bloodshed.

  He was enjoying a gourmet meal at his favorite restaurant when his special cell phone rang. This number was available only to those who had done business with him before. They were allowed to pass it to others who had need of his services, and his business grew strictly by referrals. The number had not been changed in ten years, but he did not worry about it being traced. The program he had built to host it randomly directed the calls through locations around the world, and then relayed them to his cell without a trace. If the CIA or Interpol had been monitoring this caller, their computers would have told them that
the number being dialed was that of a hardware store in Cincinnati, Ohio. Tomorrow it would go to a veterinarian’s office in Greenville, Texas.

  “This is the Spider,” he said. He had chosen the name for himself years before, and rather liked it. He imagined himself as an impeccably dressed arachnid, poised in the center of a web, sensing every vibration from its far-flung strands.

  “I have need of your services,” said a voice on the other end. The Italian was passable, but carried a North African accent. “You come highly recommended from mutual friends.”

  “What services do you require?” he asked.

  “I need to monitor all phone calls coming in and out of the National Museum of Antiquities in Naples for the next week,” the client replied. “Including any lines that are encrypted, and any cellular calls made by members of the Board of Antiquities.”

  “Simple enough,” Vizzini replied. “To where do you want the information directed?” The client rattled off an email address. “Very well. Do you want transcripts, or the actual audio files?”

  “Both, if possible,” the African said.

  “I shall require one hundred thousand Euros deposited to this account within the next two hours,” said Vizzini. “The intercepts will begin tomorrow morning, and continue through next Sunday. At that point, if you wish to continue surveillance, it will cost you an additional fifty thousand Euros a day.”

  “I imagine a single week will be sufficient,” said the client. “But if it is not, shall I contact you at this number?”

  “Precisely so,” said Vizzini. “And feel free to recommend me to your friends.”

  “I have no friends,” said the voice on the other end, and hung up.

  Vizzini shrugged and pocketed his phone. Such strange people required information sometimes.